Even Sociopaths Deserve Hugs
by Illustriousgiraffe
Summary: "Wait, no," John stopped the inevitable rant that Sherlock had started. "You see, this," He said, gesturing exaggeratedly to the detective in front of him, "This is not simple. No, nope, anything but simple." John said, running a hand through his hair, "You were dead! Dead Sherlock! Do you know what that means? How can that possibly, in any way, be SIMPLE?" No slash, just bf fluff


**This is my first Sherlock fan fiction, I couldn't really help myself. I am new to the show and watched all the episodes last week and was an emotional mess at the end of the Reichenbach Fall. So, of course, I was thinking of what would happen when Sherlock confronts John, and this came into my head. I know that there are probably too many of these out there to count, but I couldn't get this out of my head and I just love the show so much that I had to write this. It took me a while because their characters are so hard to write but it was fun. Sorry if they are OOC**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, because if I did Sherlock would have told John when he was watching him in the cemetery and I wouldn't be so sad.**

**Enjoy!**

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John Watson was known as a man who could handle his emotions very well. A man who had enough self control to fill several, more reckless human beings. There were few things that could unearth his sense of control, but lately he felt as though they were all happening at once. Besides the fact that he had been living with a sociopath for over three years, which had probably chipped away at his ability to hide his emotions, or even _keep_ them, said sociopath was now dead.

That, _that_ was something that John couldn't handle well at all. Sure, he could deal with a bomb being strapped to his chest, he could deal with being scared out of his mind by an imaginary hound, but he could _not_ deal with losing Sherlock.

True Sherlock had often driven him up the wall, made him angry, made him sad, made him all kinds of emotions that he didn't even know existed, but that was what made John human. Somehow, by living with a man that was probably the farthest thing from a human being on earth, he had become more of one himself, and John hoped that he had helped Sherlock in much the same way.

But it didn't matter now because Sherlock was dead.

It had been several months, though to John it felt like it had been all of eternity as well as only a few seconds all at once. He kept reliving that day, the memories would not leave him alone. He couldn't help but hold himself accountable for Sherlock's death. He had _left_ him, left a sociopath, possibly a depressed one, alone in a _morgue_ for Christ's sake. What had he been thinking? When he had returned and talked with Sherlock, who was perched on the edge of the roof, talked to one of his only friends in the world, he didn't say enough, he couldn't have. He wasn't able to save his best friend and now he had to live without him.

John had returned to 221B Baker street, he hadn't really wanted to but he would have had to move away from London if he had moved anywhere else, rents were up so high now. had given him a deal, allowing him to stay in the flat for just the same as he had paid before, without Sherlock's share. He was grateful, but the flat was just so . . . Sherlock.

The doctor had been reading a newspaper absently one evening when he had heard a gentle rap on the door.

He stayed put, waiting, it was probably for anyway, who would want visit him? He supposed it could be Mycroft or Lestrade, maybe even Molly, all of whom had been grieving along with him, but their visits had become less frequent and he doubted they would visit without informing him first. He was pretty sure most of them were uncomfortable being back in the flat, there were too many memories there.

The rapping on the door came again, and John heaved himself from his chair, must have been napping, or doing whatever it was she did, maybe watching some strange fashion show. John shook his head, that woman was so peculiar, yet he adored her all the same.

The stairs creaked beneath his feet, more so on the side that his limp was more prominent, Sherlock would have noticed something like that, and would have been able to deduce that John limp had slowly been coming back.

The rapping was becoming more incessant, and John quickened his pace. "I'm coming," He said, almost to the door, "One moment."

The lock clicked open and John turned the handle, stopping for a moment. Why was he suddenly so afraid to open the door? He stood there for a moment and then dismissed the thought and yanked open the door, noting the way it protested on the top right corner where the paint was too thick. He had learned more than he liked to admit from Sherlock, and found that random details and deductions would pop into his head. He admired the skill, yet it reminded him too much of his fallen friend.

When John opened the door and looked outside, said consulting detective was standing, coolly, calmly, arms clasped behind his back, smiling like nothing in the world was the matter.

But it was, everything was the matter, The man standing in front of him was _dead_, he was not supposed to be walking around London alive and happy.

"Sh-Sherlock" John stated, his head inclining upwards slightly in question, "You-you're dead-I saw you fa-you fell-jumped actually," John rambled on, random snippets of sentences forming on his tongue but never going to completion. As he ranted he fidgeted tremendously, crossing his arms, promptly uncrossing them again, reaching a hand up to the bridge of his nose, only to sigh and place the same hand on his hip, turning around and back again, sighing once more after rubbing his forehead frustratedly, and finally just opting to stop talking and letting his mouth hand slightly ajar and his hand raised like he was trying to make a point.

Sherlock flashed a smile, "Hello John," he said, acting as though nothing was wrong.

John closed his mouth, opened it again, blinked twice and promptly punched Sherlock in the face.

The consulting detective, mildly shocked, but not overly so, staggered back a few steps clutching a hand to his cheek.

"You're alive," John said, not really as a question, but not as a statement either, he barely believed it.

"Excellent deduction," Sherlock said in a flat voice, a small smile tugging at his lips once more.

"You're alive!?" replied the doctor in an angry voice, he was posing more of question now, but it was quite clear that he didn't really want an answer.

"Yes. I am. Really John, have you gone blind?" Sherlock asked, leaning in closer to John as if examining his eyes.

"Alive," John said, more to himself than to Sherlock. "You're alive, Sherlock," He said, turning to his friend. "people just don't-you can't just-YOU JUMPED OFF A BUILDING SHERLOCK!" John said, his voice rising in anger and pain. "Off a bloody building, and here you are," He said, looking Sherlock up and down, "alive." John closed his mouth, blinking quite a lot, trying to keep his emotions in check. Even after supposedly dying his flatmate could still find ways to mess with him.

"Yes. I did. I believe it was a four story one." He said, referring to Saint Barts, his voice was indifferent.

John sighed angrily, he was glad to have his annoying flatmate's bluntness back, but at the same time he was furious that this man, this _dead_ man, couldn't act at least a bit like he understood how John was feeling.

"Okay, alright, obviously you don't think it is a problem that you should be," John paused, motioning with his hands to Sherlock, "well, uh, dead."

"Obviously." Sherlock reiterated.

John wanted to smack himself in the face for his choice of words, that word 'obviously' had always been a funny one between them. Sherlock always used it to insinuate how utterly thick everyone else was.

John just stood there for a moment, arms crossed, staring at the ground and biting his lower lip in thought. "How?" he said in little above a whisper, his eyes avoiding the gaze of the dead consulting detective and staying glued to the sidewalk.

"Well you see, It was really quite simple-" Sherlock started, until he was cut off by his angry friend. Honestly Sherlock couldn't tell why he was angry.

"Wait, no," John stopped the inevitable rant that Sherlock had started. "You see, this," He said, gesturing exaggeratedly to the detective in front of him, "_This_ is not simple. No, nope, anything but simple." John said, running a hand through his hair, "You were dead! Dead Sherlock! Do you know what that means? How can that possibly, in any way, be SIMPLE!?" He asked, his final word resonating out louder than the others.

"Well to me it is." Sherlock said, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world, which was basically how he said everything.

"Of course-of course it's simple to _you_. You-You're not the one who had to sit around and think your best friend was dead!" John was seething, he still couldn't fathom what was going on, but his voice had become more broken, more subdued. He was beginning to question whether or not he should have said that.

"John I'm sorry. I truly am." Sherlock said in possibly the most sincere voice John had ever used, aside from the one that had filtered through the phone the day Sherlock has been standing on the edge of the roof. But now John was beginning to doubt that that had been actual sincerity, how could it have been if Sherlock had known he would live?

"It's . . . fine, it's fine, yup. Everything's fine." John said, sounding like a broken record, but he couldn't help it, his words showed how broken his thoughts were at the moment. "wait a second," John said lifting a hand and placing the other on his hip, which earned a confused look from Sherlock, "did-did you just _apologize_?" John asked with a look of profound shock on his face.

Sherlock scratched his head awkwardly, "Well, yes . . . em, I suppose-I suppose I did."

"Ok, alright, well now I _know_ I'm hallucinating." John said, smiling, his favorite sociopath still wasn't getting it though, "because the real Sherlock would never apologize. Ever."

"Well maybe I never had anyone _worth_ apologizing to until now." Sherlock said, his tone sincere, letting John know that he, the infamous Sherlock Holmes, dead man walking, was truly sorry.

And For all the anger and pain Sherlock had caused him, John still accepted the apology, because when he thought about it he never really had been angry, just sad, and confused, but now that would all change, because Sherlock, possibly a new apologetic Sherlock, was back.

Maybe Sherlock was a new man, maybe just a slightly altered one, but John sure was a grateful John, possibly a new John as well, so he threw all caution to the wind and reached out and hugged the consulting detective, just to make sure he was real. Or at least, that's what he told himself. It was platonic hug, one of friendship, or brotherhood, and it just seemed so . . . right.

Sherlock had his arms spread in shock but soon got over his antisocial reaction to the hug and brought his arms around his best friend. And when he thought about it, it may have been possibly only the third or fourth hug he had received in all his life, and he was glad to have a friend that was willing to hug a 'high functioning sociopath' who kept body parts in the fridge and believed everyone excluding himself to be absolutely dull, he was glad he had a friend at all.

**I deduce that you want to review! I'm Sherlock! Muahahaha, wow I'm really not this crazy in real life, these notes really bring out the worst in me . . .**

**Anyway, review and tell me what you thought!**

**Have a nice morning/evening/night/whenever you are reading this!**


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